That Golden Thread
by GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Zeus made a deal with the Fates to save the demigods, but the price he had to pay was high. An entire lifetime of twisted planning and lies has brought about the final act in a play not meant to be left to the gods alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories. Percy Jackson and all of the demigods belong to Rick Riordan. The gods, giants, Titans, etc., all belong to themselves.**

**A/N: This story is set somewhere after volume two of the Heroes of Olympus series (and maybe after volume three. We'll see, once it gets published). Written in a two-hour sprint as a faux prize after reaching 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo Thanksgiving Day. I mean no offense to the fans of the Roman gods, I merely prefer their Greek aspects. Sorry, Jupiter. **

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><p>Zeus could feel the tight bonds holding him to the cavern floor, keeping his essence from escaping. The celestial bronze cuffs were too tight and cut into his wrists, leaving trails of golden ichor when he moved, if he did at all. He could hear the voices of the demigods, and the giants, bargaining, begging, for his life.<p>

What did the demigods care about him? He had done everything in his power to push them away, to be the bad guy in all their scenarios, to act as if he were a selfish bastard who wasn't fit to be king of the gods.

Certainly, he had tried. He had tried very hard. The affairs with mortals hadn't been part of that plan, but were inevitable. He knew how to love, and he enjoyed doing so. Loving someone made him happy, and he could not rely on Hera –or Juno- to be there forever.

They could not rely on him. Zeus, Jupiter, whatever name you wished to call him, any of his many essences, he would not always be there for them.

He didn't act like he was, certainly. He did his best not to. It was better that they thought him an egotistical, selfish, idiotic adulterer than a scheming weasel who made plans so deep and twisted no one would be privy to the details at the end but him. They did not need to know how hard he had tried to keep their destinies intact –had even spoken with Luke, sending him dreams of where he kept his master bolt- in order to bring about the entire catastrophe. Poseidon had been angry, as usual, but it was all part of the plan. The Lord of the Sea loved his son very much, and would do anything in his power to keep him safe.

The Romans and the Greeks, on the other hand, were not such a family-friendly bunch. They fought and bickered and killed one another, never realizing that they were true family, no matter what name their godly parents went by. What did it matter whether he was Jupiter or Zeus? He was still himself. One person. Yet they never regarded it as such a way, and Zeus was forced to keep them separated. He knew that Hera –as Juno- would eventually attempt to bring them together, her jealousy and continuous delight in antagonizing him urging her to go behind his back, as usual, and bring about another big catastrophe he would have to deal with.

The Prophecy of Seven… Zeus knew the true meaning of it. Had known since it had been first spoken of, when the Fates had come to him while he lingered alone and had told him what was to come. They gave him a choice, and he had chosen. Be the hero, save the demigods, and be remembered as the worst king of the gods there had ever been. No one could ever know what he had done to keep them alive –keep them safe was the general term used at times like this, but being safe as a demigod? Preposterous- or the Fates would continue to weave another path of destruction.

Zeus was going to die. He had agreed, and for the end of the Prophecy, the demigods would fail, and he would die.

It was a fair price to pay for their lives. What was the life of one god to the lives of so many of his children, his nephews, nieces, granddaughters, and grandsons? They were as much his family as was his Titaness mother.

He would die for them, and they would never know.

"Gods are immortal!" Percy Jackson was speaking; that incredibly pliable son of Poseidon, who had done so much and received so little. "You can't kill him, it's impossible!"

"I know how to kill an immortal god," said the giant, down on one knee as to better speak to the tiny demigods. "All you have to do is take away the part of him that is immortal. All that is left is the mortal soul, and that is quite easy to destroy."

Zeus was ready. He kept his eyes closed, only listening. He did not wish to seem too eager in his death, and so, he feigned unconsciousness. He would not let the demigods succeed. But to do so, he would have to die.

Zeus slid away from himself, leaving Jupiter behind. If he had taken himself entirely away, then the giant would know, and his plan –Zeus's plan- would fail. Some part of him had to die, and Jupiter –with that annoyingly practicality that made up his personality- had insisted that it be him to go. Zeus was a survivor, had survived a long, long time without anyone or anything. Jupiter knew only war, and understood the risks that battle gave to the contestant. He was not afraid of death, and in dying, he could save many. Zeus wasn't sure he wanted to lose any part of himself, let alone the side that was outwardly reasonable, that was occasionally smiled upon, but he understood the risks, as well. If Zeus were to vanish fully from existence, then the world would collapse. It held itself together so tenuously as it was, it could not bear another breach of its delicate balance. As it was, the loss of Jupiter just might do more damage to the earth than good, but the demigods would survive.

Demigods were survivors.

He listened, feeling the first blow of the giant's hammer strike Jupiter's chest. Jupiter still wore the vestments of Zeus, would stay as he was until the giant's work was done. Zeus would only wait, and watch, and listen, the three Fates sitting at his side and threading, weaving, cutting as they always did, day in and day out, for all eternity. A single golden thread, woven through an entire lifetime of tapestry, grew ever closer to those sharp, sharp scissors, and Zeus could only wait. And watch. And listen.

Jupiter was mortal. The pain was only an ache, a terrible ache that struck his entire body still with the agony of it. The giant struck again, his pleasure evident on the thick words that spewed from his mouth. The demigods cried out, oblivious to Zeus, only seeing Jupiter, seeing him weaken, seeing him die, and crumble into golden dust that was softer, silky, like talc. Glittering, soft, and empty.

Zeus lay on the floor of the cave of the Fates, listening to them thread, and weave, and cut, as pain wracked his very being as a part of him was lost. Jupiter was gone, and only Zeus remained. Every monument that Jupiter had built, every item he had ever filled with his power, crumbled to dust like the remains of his mortal body. The temple in Camp Jupiter disintegrated, the imperial gold eagle lost its electric touch, the Camp itself was shivering, coming apart at the seams as all the power Jupiter had placed throughout its borders wavered and fell apart. The other gods would repair it, that, or the demigods themselves would. It would be renamed, for who would want to be part of a camp of the only god on Olympos to die a mortal death?

The demigods had failed in their quest to save their king, but the Prophecy had been fulfilled, and they were alive. The giant would fall, in the coming battle between the demigods and the giants; the help of their godly parents would spur them on, and together his family would defeat Gaea's darkest monsters.

Zeus would watch, keep the rain steady, and invisible, apart, and alone. He would remain vigilant, a watcher, a protector, until the Fates once again wove the golden thread into the story of the world again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories. Percy Jackson and all of the demigods belong to Rick Riordan. The gods, giants, Titans, etc., all belong to themselves.**

**A/N: This story is set somewhere after volume two of the Heroes of Olympus series (and maybe after volume three. We'll see, once it gets published). Written in a two-hour sprint as a faux prize after reaching 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo Thanksgiving Day. I mean no offense to the fans of the Roman gods, I merely prefer their Greek aspects. Sorry, Jupiter. **

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><p>"Why, brother? Why did you do it?" Poseidon slammed a fist against the bare wall, frustration more than anger fueling his movements. Zeus had been murdered by the giant Porphyrion, the creature Mother Earth had birthed specifically to destroy him. The Prophecy of Seven had come to pass, not with the death of a demigod, as they had feared, but with the death of a god, which no one had even dared think possible. The war with the giants lasted for days, and only working together did the Roman and Greek demigods defeat them, with the help of their godly parents.<p>

They remained in their Greek forms, paying tribute to their dead brother… father… uncle…

Zeus had been so much to them, yet so little. That mortal saying, "You never know how much you have until it's gone" was fitting, it seemed; Poseidon had argued and fought with his youngest brother enough times to wonder if having a brother was all it was cut out to be. Certainly, he loved him in a way, as if not for Zeus, none of the gods would have made it out of their Titan father's stomach. Their little brother had rescued them, fought for them, been there for them.

He had cheated on his wife, he annoyed them all with his pointless decrees and orders. He was cheerful one moment, and angry the next, his moods swinging more wildly than a flag in a cyclone.

He had been their king, their brother, and even yet they mourned for him. Camp Jupiter's defenses had suffered greatly at his death, the temple he had made for his children crumbling to granite dust. Camp Half-Blood fared better, but it's defenses were strengthened by the Golden Fleece, and stronger, older magic than the Romans ran through the very foundations of the camp. Certainly, it was odd that only remnants of Jupiter seemed to be hazardously affected, but any trace of Zeus was vanishing, it seemed.

Cabin One, in Camp Half-Blood, had been entirely renovated; the giant statue was gone, leaving only the pedestal with the engravings on the bottom scoured out as if with claws or sword. The walls were no longer bare, as they were covered with photographs and paintings, featuring only two subjects: Jason and Thalia Grace. Alone, together, every painting showed his two demigod children in different places, with different people, in different moods. Luxurious beds had been added, more windows, a table, several chairs, even a random set of odd musical instruments, many of which even Apollo was confused at what they were. A small desk in a corner was covered with art supplies; paints, pencils, erasers, pastels, any kind of drawing equipment you could ever want, all there. Empty canvases were propped up against the wall beside it, as if waiting to be completed, yet never began. Frames, waiting for a sample of art to fill them, stacked beside them. The braziers still lit the cabin, but lamps and torches lined the walls and filled every nook and cranny, only dimming if specifically asked. Jason was pleased by the change, yet he was confused on why it had happened. Discreet questions to the local cleaning ladies earned him no answers, and even the gods were unsure of the purpose behind the change.

What Poseidon wanted to know the most, though, was why his brother had not fought back, had lain there and allowed himself to be killed, to let the demigods fail before they had reached the end.

Secretly, he was relieved at the death in the prophecy had not pertained to his son, but having it pertain to his brother seemed little better. What did one do when the king of the gods is murdered underhandedly by his grandmother Gaea, and yet, the skies still purred with thunder, the clouds still dispersed their rain, all as if he had never left. Oh, he was gone, all right, but the weather was untouched. The skies were still unpredictable.

Yet there was no lord of air to guide them.

Hades was devastated. He had learned that not all souls were sent to the Underworld –even satyr souls passed through. Anyone or anything that died, he'd know about it- and that there was a way to kill an immortal god… now that was not something he necessarily had wanted to learn. Certainly, he was the god of death, yet to kill one of his siblings? There had been many a time when he had wished to kill Zeus himself, but the aftermath of such a thing, now that he knew what it meant, was far more chilling, more final, than he had ever imagined.

Poseidon missed Zeus. The Big Three was down to the Big Two, and it was lonely in the throne room, with all the remaining gods, with Aphrodite's tears and Hera's black-robed stoicism, and Ares sulking moodily in a corner, a bottle of some sort of mortal alcohol never outside his reach. Hestia, the eldest, was silent, preferring to sit at her hearth and speak of nothing.

What bothered Poseidon the most wasn't the tears, or the moping. It was Hera. She had never fully returned to Hera, not in a long time, preferring to be Juno, her stronger side. Now she wore the clothes of mourning, a widow fully and forever, yet she had not shed a single tear at her husband's death. She remained his queen, beautiful, strong, and entirely without a care. She may be his sister, but Poseidon was sorely tempted to throw her off the mountainside for a laugh. Hephaestus might help him. The god of forges had had plenty of practice of falling from heights, and he held no overpowering love for Hera.

"You were a fool, Zeus," whispered Poseidon, Lord of the Sea, the Earthshaker. "Did you think so little of us that you would abandon us to this?"

Zeus, of course, could not answer. He listened, he saw, he was saddened by the state his family was in, but the demigods would survive. Olympus would survive. The children would outgrow the father, and they would move on.

Eventually.

It seemed to be taking them an awful long time to do so.

Why couldn't they just forget him already?

What was there to remember?

That bastard, Zeus. He cheated on his wife and was mean to demigods. Never was any use, the old storm-head.

They should forget about him.

It was for the best.

Wasn't it?

What use is a god who lives a lie, anyway? He would have only hurt them, in the end, if they had found out. No one wants to know that their king had been plotting their lives out for eons, twisting their destinies to his will, alerting only the Fates to his plans. It was easier this way. They would mourn his death, his absence, their lack of ability to taunt him, antagonize him, flaunt their instances of mild betrayal at him. There would be no mourning for the loss of Zeus, or Jupiter, or whatever name they wished to call him.

His reign was over.

So be it.

All this spare time, maybe he could paint those life-sized portraits he had been thinking of for the past century or so. One of each of the gods. Not just the Olympians, but all the gods, the major, the minor, the in between. All of them. Even those who had faded back to their original, organic forms, like Pan had, not so long ago. Painting would be nice. He hadn't painted in years.

Not much else to do here.

Just weaving.

He didn't really like weaving.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories. Percy Jackson and all of the demigods belong to Rick Riordan. The gods, giants, Titans, etc., all belong to themselves.**

**A/N: This story is set somewhere after volume two of the Heroes of Olympus series (and maybe after volume three. We'll see, once it gets published). Written in a two-hour sprint as a faux prize after reaching 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo Thanksgiving Day. I mean no offense to the fans of the Roman gods, I merely prefer their Greek aspects. Sorry, Jupiter. **

**Short chapter. **

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><p>The paintings were done. There were a lot of them, so many that not only the walls of the cave, but the ceiling as well, had been covered with brilliant colours, the paint still vibrant, still fresh, as if it had been applied only yesterday, and would eternally glisten like morning dew. Faces stared at him from all around, and it was mildly disturbing to see two sets of triplets; one stock still as the canvas they were painted on, and the others moving silently below, eyes dark and watchful. Here, in their own realm, there were no handicaps, no missing eyes nor teeth. They were the mistresses here, and how they were was irrelevant. They had fallen silent in their work not long ago, when the canvases Zeus had worked upon began to creep up closer to the spires of the ceiling, edging around the stalactites, never dripped upon by the minerals rolling drop by drop down, down, down to their mirror twins, the stalagmites.<p>

"You have painted every face of every god and goddess known to the world," said Atropos, her scissors snip, snip, snipping across the tapestry. "Even ones long forgotten, better left in darkness. You have painted the giants, the Titans, every nymph and naiad, the satyrs, and the face of every demigod ever born to a god. Our walls have never been so full, and so many eyes have never stared upon us in such a length of time. You are restless, son of Kronos. In time, you will leave us, and reclaim your place on Olympus."

Zeus raised his head from his latest canvas, a rather dreary scenery depicting a tower being struck by lightning, and two figures falling from its height. "My deal was made," he said quietly. "The demigods must survive. Olympus needs no king; it can stand on its own."

"Our deal was that you would die," said Lachesis, her spindly fingers so deft, so skilled, as she wove the pattern into shape. "You have died, and returned to us, as promised. The Jupiter aspect of yourself is gone, and will never return so long as you are who you are. The demigods will live, as we have promised, until their destinies so twist the threads and lead the spider to their twitching forms."

"You have graced our halls long enough," said Clotho, her fingers threading a new spindle. "We have enjoyed your company, but you cannot linger here forever. Your spirit is healed once again, and you may return to your family, your home. Whatever story you may tell them, that is up to you."

"If you tell them the truth, your fate will not change," said Atropos. "Your fate has always been to be leader of the gods, and even here, you remain so."

"If you tell them a lie, your fate remains so," said Lachesis. "You will be only as you once were, the ridiculed king of the gods, yet still, the king."

"If you tell them nothing, your fate will always be the same," said Clotho. "You will be mistrusted, yet still the king of the gods."

"I do not know if I want to be king of the gods anymore," said Zeus.

"That is your destiny, little one," said Clotho sadly. "Only Zeus can be king of the gods. Without Zeus, the Olympians are incomplete. Bring to mind the phrase a much-loved American spoke all those years ago."

"A house divided…"

"…against itself…"

"…cannot stand."

"Abraham Lincoln, president of the United States of America," said Zeus. "The house is not divided."

"It is missing its foundation," said Atropos. "Before you can build the house, you must lay the foundation."

"The foundation was laid," said Lachesis, "but it has cracked down the middle."

"The structure that depends on it will not stand on its own," said Clotho. "You have healed, son of Kronos. Now you must heal your family."

Zeus bowed his head. "So be it," he murmured. The Fates paused in their incessant weaving, breaking the film of reality and evicting the lord of the skies from their home. Their part in this chapter of his life was done.

And they were rather looking forward to some unbroken silence.

Not that Zeus was a terribly talkative guest, but the unending swish of brush on canvas was a sound that was liable to drive one insane. Swish of the brush in a cup of water, bristles on cloth, paint smearing, colours blending, all a void of sound that was soothing in ways, for the soul of a torn god and the hearts of abandoned Fates.

Yet the world moved on, lives were lost and lives were made, and the twining threads of Fate were ever moving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories. Percy Jackson and all of the demigods belong to Rick Riordan. The gods, giants, Titans, etc., all belong to themselves.**

**A/N: ****This story is set somewhere after volume two of the Heroes of Olympus series (and maybe after volume three. We'll see, once it gets published). Written in a two-hour sprint as a faux prize after reaching 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo Thanksgiving Day. I mean no offense to the fans of the Roman gods, I merely prefer their Greek aspects. Sorry, Jupiter**_**. ** _

_Hello, again! I apologize for the long wait... it took a while to fix my computer after its BSOD, and then I forgot to put Word back on. No Word, no writing. Fourth chapter in, not really long or useful, just more of a filler to get the pawns- I mean, characters, where they need to be. _

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><p>Poseidon did not spend many mortal days on Olympus. He journeyed there only to attend a summoning, to mingle on solstices, to speak with his family, when necessary. He preferred to stay in his underwater realm, where he was lord and all he saw was his. Here, in this mountain, the corridors and rooms changed to the whim of any god or goddess who chose to transform them, creating vast mazes that no one creature knew the true path through. And today, like any other, he found himself wandering the halls, lost, yet still aware of where he was, if not certain. He turned a corner, hoping to find a path to the other rooms again, and came face to face with himself.<p>

With a yell of surprise, Poseidon jumped back, shocked by the visage before him. Eyes as green, blue and brown as the sea gazed fiercely back into his own, and Poseidon stared, speechless, for a long moment at his likeness. It was no mirror, as he had first thought, merely a painting. Taller than he, the painting had only a three-sided frame; the base of the painting rested on the floor, giving the illusion of a shared height between both the real and the representation Earthshaker. A mortal photograph could not have captured a better rendering, and Poseidon reached up a hand to touch the canvas.

His fingers slid off glass. Startled, the lord of earthquakes jerked his hand away. The path of his fingertips had left streaks on the clear surface, marring the image below and casting a thunderous look onto Poseidon's face. For a moment, he mirrored his visage, then called water into his hand and wiped away the smudge.

Poseidon turned, and once again paused, for now it was Hades who faced him, his face half hidden by shadow beneath his helm of darkness. It was, once again, a perfect likeness, and Poseidon resisted the urge to hail his remaining brother, to speak with him. That had not spoken in many years, more than he would have liked to recall. When had blood begun to mean to little in this family?

"From the beginning."

It took Poseidon a moment to realize that someone had answered his question, and he felt mild embarrassment that he had spoken aloud. "Who's there?" He could see no one, yet felt a presence, had heard the voice. Who was it?

"Blood of your blood, family of your family, here but not here, but no one, all the same. You speak of blood as if it binds things, as if it were thicker than water, that it can break all bonds that threaten it and triumph through darkest hours. Is that not what family is meant to be?"

Poseidon knew that voice. It reminded him of summers spent on beaches, sand kicked up in the wake of flying feet, and the dusk before darkness. "Hades?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no. I am no lord of death. Come now, Poseidon. Do not dwell on names. Names mean nothing to blood, for what to blood are names? Names are nothing, mean nothing. Blood is all that is left, in the end."

"'From the beginning', you said." Poseidon started down the hall, searching for the voice. "Not the end." He made little progress, as the progressing paintings never failed to halt him in his tracks, his curiosity growing with every one. The faces of the world were in this corridor, and he could not imagine who could have found the time, the _patience_, to extort the essence of the many, many portraits. "When was the beginning?"

"What," corrected the voice, louder now, closer. The faint sloshing of some liquid in a container, the tiny tapping of a thin stick against a rim. "What, not when."

"What, then?" Poseidon rounded yet another corner, and froze. Percy stood there- no, not Percy. A portrait of Percy. When would he cease to be surprised? He lingered longer before his son, and almost missed the next words.

"In the beginning, there were six siblings, six brothers and sisters who would stand together and face all foes with their blood at their backs and their strength combined. They fought back the forces that threatened their world, and took that world and beat it, shaped it, forged it to be their own."

Poseidon paused before a rendering of Gaea, an idealistic, artistic approach that was more earth, tree, and stone than humanoid. "They were together."

"For a while. Like all good things, it came to an end, and the family was broken."

"How?"

"You're not asking the right question."

"What's the right question?" Poseidon rounded the corner, and came to a halt, meeting the eyes of his brother with his own.

"The right question," said Zeus, smearing a streak of blue paint across Poseidon's nose, "is _why_."


End file.
